At the Queen's Command (59 page)

What surprised Nathaniel was that while Caleb had been speaking, he’d been looking at the problem the way Prince Vlad would have. It was all a matter of angles and powder, elevation and wind. Nathaniel even figured that wounding a man was better than killing him, since there wasn’t quite anything like a grown man shrieking to take the steel out of other men’s spines.

He hadn’t been thinking about morality. Sure, the men were
men
, but they were men whose existence threatened his. The connection might be slender, but if the Ryngians had their way, they’d sweep all Mystrians off the continent. What he was doing might have been pre-emptive, but there wasn’t any denying the Ryngian threat.

Nathaniel stood. “Well now, Major, you done given me something to be thinking on for a bit.”

“Good. I don’t want any men who aren’t willing to think, and who aren’t willing to take responsibility for their actions.” Major Forest nodded slowly. “I want you all to think about it. We’ll reconvene at dusk but, in the meantime, get crews together to make canoes to get us across that river.”

Kamiskwa, the Altashee, and Lanatashee worked with the Mystrians to shape canoes. The Shedashee had lost four warriors, two from each tribe. In entering Seven Nations territory, Kamiskwa had met with representatives of the Waruntokii, whose land they were moving through. The Waruntokii were wary of du Malphias because of his close association with the Ungarakii. The Waruntokii would do nothing to help the Rangers, and demanded four hostages against any hostilities by the Rangers on the Waruntokii.

As evening fell they completed five large war canoes that could carry ten men each. The plan was to move downriver, out of site of Fort Cuivre, and string a line across. In an hour or two they could ferry their complete force north.

Major Forest studied the faces of his officers as they met in a hollow. A few logs burned in a fire pit, casting red illumination that made everyone appear as if dwelling in Hell. “Your thoughts, gentlemen?”

Makepeace nodded. “I done me some cogitating and praying, more one than the other, truth be told. Begging the Reverend’s pardon, but seems to me that the Good Lord done used a lot of trickery in war in the Good Book. Now iffen He wanted to give one of us a horn what would bring down the walls of that there fort, we’d be counting it a miracle, nothing more be said. Just because a bunch of men put laws to warfare don’t go amending God’s Laws. I reckon as long as we treat honorable what surrenders, I’m willing to drop those as don’t.”

Beecher blinked several times. “But, gentlemen, this will put your immortal souls in jeopardy.”

Rufus Branch spat into the fire. “Ain’t like it ain’t there already. I’ll kill those opposing me. If they’re gonna surrender, best do it right quick, or I’ll kill them, too.”

Nathaniel stood and ran a hand across his jaw. “I reckon you all ’spect me to be agreeing with Makepeace. I ain’t saying I don’t. I also ain’t saying Reverend Beecher don’t have a point. Seems to me that iffen we all agree on shooting all the Ryngians we can, we still got us a problem. As the Major said, ain’t no reason the Ryngians cain’t all just stay hunkered down. And, see, here’s where Caleb and Reverend Beecher has their points.”

He got a stick and redrew the fort. “Now iffen they keep their heads down, they cain’t see what we is doing. That works to our advantage. And if they’s angry with us, they ain’t gonna be thinking straight if they do see something. And they is Ryngians, so they is going to be worried about their honor. Iffen we did form up, they might come out after us, accepting that battle when they see how pitiful we is.”

Major Forest watched him, a smile fighting its way onto his face. “You have something in mind, Captain Woods?”

“I do, sir. Glimmerings, anyway. I reckon that in three days we can have them Ryngians so confused they ain’t got no idea what’s happening. I reckon that’s when surrendering will sound good. One quick trick, and that fort will be ours.”

“I await your plan, Captain Woods.” Forest chuckled. “Let’s hope your trick saves a lot of blood.”

Beecher shook his head. “Duplicity is not honorable! I forbid this.”

Forest’s expression tightened. “You need to understand two things, Mr. Beecher. The first is that you are here as a courtesy to Bishop Bumble. Your duties consist of providing spiritual comfort. Second, war itself is not honorable. There is no honor in slaughtering men. Moral right, perhaps, especially when your family and your freedom are under attack, but never honor. Dying with honor is a myth promulgated to ease the grief of survivors, nothing more.”

Beecher stiffened. “I shall write the Bishop about this.”

“Please do. Do it now, in fact.” Forest nodded to the cleric. “My men and I have a war to plan.”

Chapter Sixty

July 25, 1764

On the Shores of Anvil Lake, Mystria

T
hough it remained high summer and Prince Vlad had pulled a blanket around himself, he could not shake the chill. The Mystrian contingent arrived at Anvil Lake by mid-morning. The whole of the space in which he had considered putting Fort Hope had already been cleared. Stumps had been pulled, holes filled, and ground leveled. The lumber had been trimmed and stacked neatly, waiting for construction.

The Tharyngians had even supplied a sign proclaiming the site to be Fort Hope. Prince Vlad had not confided that name to but a handful and the enemy already knew it. The Ryngian’s skill at ferreting out information impressed the Prince.

And it explains why we faced so little harassment on the way here.

Clearing the site of Fort Hope was not the lone improvement the Ryngians had supplied. They cut a fifteen-foot-wide road to the southwest, presumably running all the way past the Roaring River outlet and right up to the Fortress of Death. Count von Metternin and Owen had already traveled a ways upon it and returned to report that excess wood had been split into firewood and stacked for their use.

Vlad had immediately sent runners back to fetch Lord Rivendell. He dispatched work parties to clear campsites well away from the foundation of Fort Hope. While it would have been easier to let the men set up camp there, it was also possible that du Malphias had positioned mortar emplacements in the woods and had them angled to drop explosives on the cleared ground. Vlad organized hunting parties to scour the hills looking for those sites and set pickets out along the road.

He wished he had Nathaniel or Kamiskwa on site. Either of them could have told him how long ago the work had been done. He was guessing, given that bare shoots were the only undergrowth at Fort Hope, that the ground had been prepared two weeks previously. He also suspected the road had been cut at fifteen feet to mock their meager eight-foot effort.

The Prince left Mugwump to Baker’s care and found Owen. “Why would he do this?”

Owen frowned. “Winter slowed the
pasmortes
down. All this work means they are revitalized. I would bet that the winter’s dead from Kebeton City never made it into the ground. He will have the Platine Regiment, and whatever dead he could ship west.”

Count von Metternin joined them. “This is a foul business. The road extends fifty miles and is twice as wide as ours. In two weeks he has cut what it would have taken us a month
and
cleared this space. When we come to the Roaring River, I am certain there will be a bridge.”

Lord Rivendell and Colonel Langford rode up. Rivendell surveyed the area and smiled broadly. “Bravo, Highness. This is splendid. Splendid. Your men have outdone yourselves.”

“Not our work, Lord Rivendell.” The Prince nodded toward the sign. “Du Malphias did this. He even cut us a lovely path to his domain.”

“Doubtless thinking I will be merciful in my gratitude. Excellent. A broad boulevard—that’s their word, ain’t it—for our victory march. Even Harry’s men won’t be too sad to march it.”

“I believe you are missing my point.”

“Trying to think like a soldier, are you, Highness? Leave that to the professionals.” Rivendell stood in his stirrups and looked at the road. “He’s not the sort to ambush us.”

Vlad frowned. “But he
did
send the Ungarakii to attack you on the road.”

“He’s not responsible for the actions of his heathen allies, Highness. They don’t understand our ways of war. But we showed them.” Rivendell turned to his aide. “Make a note of that, Langford. Du Malphias showed me the honor due for my actions at Villerupt. We’ll have an entire chapter about such honor in my book.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Canoe approaching, under a white flag.”

The Mystrian sentry’s shout brought all eyes to the shore. A birch-bark canoe glided over placid water reflecting the blue sky and high clouds. A soldier in the Platine Regiment’s uniform held a white flag aloft, while two civilians provided propulsion. Sentries ran knee-deep to help drag the boat ashore, but only the soldier alighted.

He marched stiffly up the beach, then saluted. “I am Major Lebouf. Do I have the honor of addressing Prince Vladimir?”

“You do.”

Rivendell rode forward. “I am the commander of this expedition. Anything you have to say you should address to me.”

The Major smiled politely. “And you would be Lord Rivendell?”

“I would.”

“Then my master has a special greeting for you. He says he looks forward to meeting you face to face, since the last time you met, he only saw your back.”

Rivendell blanched, then lashed out with his riding crop. He caught Langford across the chest. “Do
not
write that down, you idiot.”

Langford snapped the journal shut.

Prince Vlad waved the sentries back to their posts while they could still contain their mirth. “You have a message, Major?”

“Yes. The Esteemed Laureate Guy du Malphias requests the pleasure of your company, under a white flag, for dinner this evening. If you proceed up the road for ten miles, you will find the pavilion he has created. He asks that you join him by seven. He said he would be pleased if you brought Lord Rivendell, Colonels Langford, Thornbury, and Exeter with you. With apologies, he did not include Count von Metternin.”

“I see.”

Rivendell swept off his hat. “Please convey to your master that we accept his invitations. We shall be pleased to discuss terms of surrender as well.”

The Major smiled. “He has anticipated you, sir. He said he would decline your kind offer, as he is not prepared to accept your surrender yet.”

“My surrender? My surrender?” The color which had previously left Rivendell’s face flushed back swiftly. “It is not
our
surrender of which I speak.”

Vlad held up a hand. “Please tell the Laureate that we will join him.”

“I shall, thank you.” The Major bowed, then turned toward Owen. “And you, sir, would be Captain Strake?”

“I am.”

The Ryngian officer reached inside his coat pocket and withdrew a sealed missive. “I was asked to give this to you.”

Owen accepted it, but did not break the seal. “You’ve done your duty.”

The Major returned to the canoe, and Owen shoved it back into the lake. The paddlers steadied the boat as the Major sat, then bent to the task of propelling it across the water.

Rivendell pointed his crop at Owen. “I will have that note from the enemy, Captain Strake.”

Owen ignored him, broke the seal and read. He grunted. “Just an apology for not including me in the dinner. Given the circumstances of my previous departure, he found me an ungracious guest.”

“Give it here.”

Owen’s face darkened. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“You are a man who is known to be familiar with ciphers and who, beyond all belief, escaped to Temperance with two broken legs.”

“So you believe I am du Malphias’ agent.”

“I think it is also curious that his native allies killed our soldiers, but let you live.” Rivendell sneered. “Langford, you
are
getting this down, are you not?”

The scratch of a pencil on paper answered him.

Vlad sighed and held his hand out. Owen gave him the note. The Prince read it, then looked up at Rivendell. “I should remind you, sir, that
I
am the expert in ciphers. This note contains none, and is exactly what Captain Strake reported it to be. Now, unless you want to call me a liar or suggest I am in the Laureate’s employ, I think you should get to your wardrobe and prepare yourself for this evening’s dinner.”

The Prince looked at himself in the small hand mirror von Metternin held up. “This will have to do.”

The Kessian shook his head. “You will be the vulture at a peacock ball, highness. I have waistcoats and shoes that will fit you.”

Vlad laughed. “I appreciate the offer, but homespun will be fine. I represent the people of Mystria—as Rivendell is oft wont to remind me—so I shall be attired as they are. I do appreciate, however, the loan of clean hose.”

“I would lend you one more thing.” The Count withdrew a small, double-barreled, over-and-under pistol. “Take this. Kill the Laureate. We will be done with this business.”

The Prince stared at the weapon. “But that would be murder, and under a white flag.”

“My friend, you are smarter than to believe that. Du Malphias will be waging war under the white flag. He will scare Rivendell, or make him overconfident. This campaign will be won over dinner this evening. You can win it with one shot.”

“I can’t do it.”

“Of course you can. It is easy. Point. Shoot. It is never hard.”

Vlad glanced down. “You are a soldier.”

“By the blood of God, you have never killed a man, have you?”

The Prince met the man’s incredulous stare. “I’ve seen them die. I’ve never killed one.”

Von Metternin returned the pistol to his pocket. “How I envy you, and pity you. Firing the shot is easy. Living with the consequences is not. I do not think, however, I would lose sleep over killing du Malphias.”

Vlad smiled. “Then I hope, my friend, that the opportunity falls to you.”

The Prince remained silent on the ride to the dinner simply because he did not want to invite his companions to speak. Langford and Rivendell led the way. Colonel Harry Thornbury of the Cavalry and Colonel Anthony Exeter of the Fourth Foot came next. The Prince rode in the back next to a self-invited guest, Bishop Bumble. The Bishop bore the white flag.